In rural Spain, located within the trespass of isolation breaking it away from civilization through a phalanx of thick forests, loomed a village blanketed by the foggiest of nights that yonder 40 yards beyond could not be deciphered by the eyes, seated right at the mouth of a mist veiled mountain in its fore by a few miles, but nothing that two dozen minutes of walking cannot rectify in distance. Reports came from Father Vlad within the Church in a complaint of creatures basking within the fogs, snatching away what was once three hundred villagers, now a paltry few fifty remain behind, as True Cross has come to be informed of the actions taking place, but once again, information is sketchy, aside from fur clad beasts sating their abominable bloodlust with the virginal vitae of the denizens within, whom took to the night where once day was thought their time of activity.

Throughout the atmosphere laden within the village itself was that of a heavy nauseating lead blanket which inspired a palpable dread and a feeling of oppression tangible in sensations when entering the fog filled hub of what was once a prosperous community, now decadent and almost obscure town long fallen into ruin, added into further misery with the centuries of isolation. Locating the village is difficult as it is no longer in the map, aside from olden Medieval records that were plentifully available in True Cross infobanks, and word of mouth to those that actually traveled there.

Aside from a plenty number of empty buildings that elevate from the slope foundation of the village, they ultimately end at the modest Church, lacking a Crucifix affixed to its top, instead recognizable by its architecture. There seemed to be hushed activity, mostly those taking to their homes as they loom a vision outside, and yet the long haired priest wearing a set of priestly raiment lacking a clerical cross, and particularly braving the full moon night, stood outside his Church. Not expecting anyone, but to keep to his vigil as to watch if bloodshed would unfold or not. Vlad considered the ramifications of his actions, but the night is not for these beasts to have, no, their tyranny, he felt, should come to an end.

The thought of taking on another assignment so soon after suffering significant injuries would be considered detrimental by most individuals, and that mindset was firmly maintained by many of Veronica's colleagues within the True Cross Organization upon hearing the request that the Paladin Champion had made. However, while it was an appreciated sentiment, the concern they held was unfounded in the eyes of the Church's Bloodhound. The seemingly endless fatigue of previous exhaustion and immeasurable agony of grievous wounds gained from what would now be the past had all but disappeared within the time she had allowed herself to properly recuperate, gathering herself once more and becoming invigorated by a considerable amount of repose that was justifiably earned.

The swathe of bandages that had once enveloped a portion of her face had all but been removed, allowing the vibrant amber eye that was beneath it all to shine vibrantly in contrast with the darkened flesh of the facial scar that refused to disappear, forever marring the woman's quaint features with a horrible reminder of past events. The same could be said for the bandages that had covered the rest of the previous wounds. Those once upon the woman's back had been stripped away, revealing the additional scars that were now hidden beneath the typical habit of a Catholic Nun that was Corvis' frequent choice of clothing. Naturally, any pain they might have once caused, mental or otherwise, had all but drained away to return natural feeling to the once horribly taxed flesh of her body.

The past week had gone by in relative stagnation that had consisted mostly of the inactivity that came with convalescing, but that was enough. She had been idle for far too long, and only those who were intimately acquainted with the accursed rumors of schadenfreude revolving around the Nun knew why. It was not because her work as an Agent of Divine Punishment had been temporarily postponed. Something so insignificant would not draw out the primal desires that were repressed deep within, as other agents could continue the fight in her stead. In fact, it had little at all to do with the religious faith she had associated herself with. It was something far more personal and private than that, far more ingrained within her very essence and the exact opposite of the stringent religious doctrine to which she was tethered.

The first few days within the True Cross medical facilities were standard issue, and went about as a fairly ordinary day-to-day routine that were quite comfortable and far from unpleasant. The days after that, however, the previous days leading up to the current moment, that was when the darker aspects of her mind that she so loathed had began to surface inspite of the Nun's attempts to keep them suppressed. She had managed to do so, with great struggle, but she could no longer contain the urges no matter how hard she focused. It was why she was here, in Spain. She longed to indulge herself within a hunt, and now that she was seated within the back of a personal vehicle en route to the desired location, Veronica couldn't force her facial features to retain their usual stoicism. Instead, they had been replaced with an unsettling smirk...

Truly, not even the famed professionalism that she had constantly maintained throughout the vast majority of her life could put up even the most minor of resistances against what was aching feeling that was harbored deep within. The simple thought of participating in and satiating the hidden desires that plagued her since she was but a child, after so long a time of being inactive, was enough to make the Paladin, who sat properly within the backseat akin to a statue, visibly shudder with barely contained exhilaration. The feeling was only enhanced as the Champion's mind raced over the various details that had been provided for the assignment, this being the several hundredth time that she had done so since departing from Rome some hours ago.

Upon feeling the vehicle decelerate at the edge of the town, it took all of the willpower and focus Corvis could muster in order to make any visual signs of elation she was feeling disappear, forcing a professional facade to take it's place. The thought of everyone within the village witnessing such a shameful demeanor, even the barest hints of it, would have been enough to bring about utter mortification upon the Bloodhound, and that alone gave enough motivational reason to forcefully bury it beneath the famed stoic professionalism that she commonly used as a mask. Thankfully, she was confident that she could hold the display until the time came to satisfy the desire she had been longing to quench for the past few days that, to the Nun, seemed like an aching eternity.

Opening the black sedan's back door, Corvis would step out into the night air with a tingle of excitement slowly tracing it's way along the length of her spine upon observing the village from a distance. Details of the villages layout were tedious to perceive due to the lingering of thick fog, but it was the fog itself that was being taken into consideration. The sixth sense that allowed for detecting and tracking supernatural creatures had already made it possible for her to determine that this fog was unnatural. It was common knowledge amongst experienced hunters of the supernatural that lycanthorpes, upon reaching the proper age, could expel a blinding mist to conceal themselves, and that alone was enough to sate the woman's dubious curiosity towards the accuracy of the details she had been given.

Closing the door with a casual motion of her hand, the driver began to speed away into the night as Corvis started the trek that would lead farther within the thick fog and deeper into the village. Granted, experienced lycans tended to utilized the fog to stage ambushes, but Corvis wasn't blind within the smokescreen that had been conjured. If anything of supernatural origin was lurking within, should it enter the encompassing range of her sixth sense, they would immediately lose any element of surprise. So, she traversed the thick mist with a bold, stoic confidence beneath of which laid an overflowing excitement that truly hoped, no, utterly begged for something to be foolish enough and make an attempt on the life of the female newcomer who dared to walk the territory they had come to claim as a hunting ground.

The fog rendered the possibility of gathering village details almost impossible, this was true, but the Bloodhound of the True Cross had keen enough eyesight to locate the church's bell tower reaching towards the sky upon exiting the vehicle she had arrived in some minutes earlier, and with that in mind she would make that the starting place for the investigation she had come to conduct. Perhaps she could locate the clergyman who made the desperate reports of disappearances, though the conversation likely wouldn't provide more details than she had already come to gather from the True Cross Information Bureau and her own analysis of the tainted mist that ominously loomed over the town. However, regardless of how uninformative it would potentially be, it was still required.

Last edited by Veronica Corvis on Wed Oct 22, 2014 5:59 pm; edited 1 time in total

It was true, that the misty veil which obscured the sight did more so than that in the most subtle of ways that makes it seem indistinguishable from any other mists Lycans exhude. That of heavy tyranny which blinds any sort of sensation to dwell upon reading anything. A heavy atmosphere which betrayed the amount of skills, or perhaps the specialty behind the mechanics of the fumigation in itself, to render the sixth sense without knowledge of what dwells without and within. Nonetheless, the walk through the muddy landscape that has seen rain recently from its still overcast skies, now thirsty from urinating too much water droplets, hung afloat from above, complimenting to the mist as it had moved in to cover what holds up top in the heavenly ceiling.

The car that drove away soon and as suddenly, was erased from sound in existence as it no longer let loft screeches of engine forcing tires to grind against the soppy soil, the light that once penetrated through the fogs gone and robbed of existence, and yet there were no more incoming looming sounds to emerge from that aside from the sheer lack of it in the eerily silent tranquility in the former glade and font of nature which stands to blanket the ground all around the veteran Church militant.

Veronica's trek, should she be willing to make forward in spite of no incidents, would be without encounter of life of any kind. The moss encrusted and rustic houses around her surrounding, rowing from her flanks to form a corridor of buildings directly leading to the Church, had naught a presence in any semblance, nor activity that once infected the town with virulent errands to be made aplenty. The roads were in sheer disrepair and overtaken by nature to a degree, what with the dirt being plenty, and cracks forming cobwebs all around the trail that once provided clear and smooth rides through here either on car or horse cart.

A shine of silver twinkles in front of her had she made halfway in dwindling gap towards the place of worship, the woman of the Cross now laden with a plethora of feelings none the conforming to doctrines of compassion and serenity, now ever turbulent in temerity and turmoil boiling a darker feeling of vice. A long, drawn out five foot of rod with an end sharpened to be pinprick, thick as a javelin, sailed through air in an almost flat horizontal trajectory given speed, straight for the central bulk of her body mass, lacking any distinctive dominance that comes from the abominable, but merely retained a sense of being mundane in spite of its purpose directed towards murder, towards Veronica, lancing unto the ripest of targets to rape penetration for her lungs, and beyond that, impalement as the three hooked prongs at the pommel indicated for latching on to a stop, in that it would not pierce completely through without lodging into her.

What followed after was a man that sprinted towards her, hands laden with thick leather gloves, and clearly wearing the clerical raiment of the Church. His hair long, his skin pale from days spent in hiding without ever coming out in day time due to the hunters of the forests laying sovereignty in the land, and long black hair parted to the side that only makes his grim, gaunt face seem rather narrower than it should be. His face twisted in a derision of suspicion and hostility to the unknown person coming in. Honestly, he was not expecting a woman, that soon enough, having run towards her in peak physical condition normal in humans, from halfway ready to run her through with a long wooden stake about his size, he soon slowed and stopped in front of the nun, 15 feet in front with a softening look of confusion that twisted his face.

Where one's attention might have been drawn to obverse their surroundings when close enough to negate the mist's concealing nature, the lone woman's amber eyes remained fixed upon the path she walked and what might lay ahead. The possible details of the rustic village, while she may have found them to be rather quaint under different circumstances, were completely nugatory against the current whirlpool of wickedly debauched thoughts that surged like a violently storming ocean deep within the Champion of the Cross's mind. Where one would commonly find apprehension and suspicion at the lack of town inhabitants, Corvis only felt the constantly growing elation swelling up within at the mere notion of inflicting the worst of pains upon those responsible. Not because they were to be held accountable, but simply because she couldn't continue without the sating the desire to make something, anything, scream in pure, blissful agony.

In fact, Corvis couldn't help but once again take notice of the tingling sensation that now slowly ascended the length of her spinal cord, as if a teasing promise of unrivaled euphoria if she would simply submit to it. Overwhelming as the accursed feelings buried deep within truly were, she had not been foolish enough to fully surrendered the sense of reason and attention to the abysmal inclinations that she had come to utterly despise, not yet, at least, but it was unknown even to Corvis how long she could continue to suppress the overflowing desire. The sadistic tendencies were the most predominately concealed aspect that she would deny about herself. If anyone ever truly discovered the secrete with any factual evidence, then it would bring about nothing short of complete humiliation. However, she had learned to not lock them away. That is why she primarily took assignments alone, so that none would bare witness to the shameful side she possessed, and so she could indulge in it...

The fact that Corvis had been filled to the absolute brim with the desire for conflict was a benefit, for the incoming projectile had not gone unnoticed even with the dense mist that attempted to conceal everything within it's perimeter. In that moment, for a single, instantaneous span of time, a sadistic grin of the most heinous intent had tore through the stoical facade that Corvis had on display simply by the mere thought of finally being able to obtain the release she so desired, but it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared when keen eyes observed the nature of what was truly careening towards her center mass. In one fluid motion, the subtlest of contortions began at the Paladin's hips, allowing her to angle the target that the javelin sought to the right as one of the woman's deft and nimble hand's flew up to alter the spears course. The palm belonging to a right hand slapped hard against the shaft to send it sailing harmlessly beyond, down and to the left of it's target without ever fulfilling it's lethal purpose, where it would come to a sudden rest upon impaling the ground slightly behind the Bloodhound.

Forcefully quelling the already overpowering desire to bask in the bliss of hurting something, particularly this man who had made an attempt on her life unprovoked, as he was the closest, the thought of hearing him scream being almost irresistible, Corvis retained a professional composure with the sentiment of allowing that desire to build even more so the ecstasy upon release would be all the more gratifying. The thought of the lycans primal howls being filled with the absolute anguish she would bring upon them only added more fuel to the metaphorical flames of the still growing impulses that were only barely contained through sheer concentration, though the torrential onslaught of deviant thoughts that raced within the Nun's mind were quickly eroding away the chains of focus at their foundation. She would have to move quickly while some form of control was still within her ability, to locate the beasts she had been assigned to hunt, for both her own sake and that of the villagers that still lingered, for the built up compulsion - so close to the point of bursting was it - wouldn't allow Corvis to spare a single individual if they became caught up within the seething storm she harbored inside.

Returning to the upright posture she had previously maintained from the torqued positioning that her upper torso had adopted, Corvis took notice of the approaching individual and his vocal response. It was easily enough to decipher as being an inquiry of some type, but Veronica had little understanding of the Romanian language beyond identifying it. This made communication tedious. It was expected of the locals, though, which is why she primarily wished to speak with the clergy at the local church if she had to engage in dialogue with anyone at all. That way, at the very least, she could converse with them in Latin if English was unknown. Stoically pointing with an index finger towards the church's tower and hoping the man would understand the meaning behind the motion, Corvis would, for good measure, attempt to make a dialogue to further establish a bridge of communication with the information she had obtained from the True Cross Information Bureau.

"Father Vlad." She said, hoping the name of the local priest would reveal the reason for her being there and dawn some realization upon the man as to what her intent truly was.

The village stood strong in the face of adversity, one that never ended in its fruitless assault time and time again as it was made clear to Vlad especially that they were here to murder everyone, regardless of whatever they were in the past, present, and future. The Lycanthropes, or men wearing the fur of beasts, as he'd known them, have come to dominate and encompass whole their reign of never ending terror, and yet he persevered with his beliefs of self-entitled advancements that perhaps he can turn the situation astray from the plan in mind. Whatever would tip the scales, he would take in this forlorn land that has come to know remoteness mostly and carve it into an instrument of where authority would not be so easily cowed by the Lycans. His own presence outside in spite of the paltry few villagers that cowered inside their homes was testament to the shining beacon of his own daring.

Father Vlad found himself impressed to the sister's ability to deflect the silver spear in hasty parry that rivals perhaps the lowliest of denizens of the night where they would bask in the moon, be it whatever that count themselves within the countenance of the lunar phases of Earth. Taking note of her own withdrawal of hostilities than to persist with her nauseating insistence as most others would on trying to return the favour in the form of a hasty and ill thought retribution fueled by zeal, Vlad visibly slacked as the tense palpable atmosphere melted into the background upon her professionalism deigning to retain communication between the two. Father Vlad nodded to her pronouncing of his name through spitting verbatum at him with meaning behind them.

"Sister Veronica, I presume?" Well, at least she was the same one that was said to be sent when he last heard of a response being forthcoming from what he knew of the Church's response to this infestation, showing that his faith was not misplaced in their ability to handle things. Giving a quick curtsy, the priest inclined his head in recognition to her status, or at least assumed superiority for hers is the role of bigger danger and adventure, and it would do well to pay heed to respect when he tried to murder her beforehand. "You are correct in that I am Father Vlad. You came at a rather opportune time, I must confess, as I vas just about to set out on a hunt to take out these creatures." He completed his sentences with a Romanian accented English, the international language. He obviously read her intentions without having to relay on her physical attempt to communicate with gestures, as primitive as that sounds.

He took a long thirsty sigh to the notion of all these precious villagers were gone, for what they served was a far better cause than to be chow for some monsters from beyond the veil of mist. "I vish you came earlier, othervise there'd be more of the Spanioli locals to be around to live another day in splendour of a cause greater than them, but alas, their village became cursed, and I, long seen as a source of trust, couldn't save them from these... THINGS. Abominable creatures as baser as the filth on the ground TOOK them. Any longer, and you vould've valked into a ghost town where no life would be in, I've seen too many souls go, and I vish no more vould go on any longer." Vlad explained the circumstances as nicely as he could, sparing her most of the poignant nonsense as that's probably not what she wants to hear.

He swept his raven black bangs to the side, clearing his vision of follicles from obstructing his eyes, "If you'd like to know more, I vould be happy to provide information, so long as you can rid us of these furry menace."

The realization that this man was the one she sought, and that he could properly communicate without the hindrance of a tedious language barrier that would need to be overcome, made the situation far more tolerable for the Bloodhound who was teetering on the line between restraint and indulgence. Thankfully, and luckily for all those still around, the lack of irritable obstacles in the way of obtaining the only information she required and the submissive signs that the foreign Father showed in apology and respect had allowed Corvis to keep the stoic composure she had come to readily utilize, which spared the holy man any painful experiences that might have been inflicted unto him otherwise.

"You presume correctly," Corvis confirmed, placing a hand lazily upon one of her hips as bodily weight that had been previously distributed evenly shifted onto one foot. The nun examined the priest as he continued his exposition, and look of amused interest and professional criticism not on her stoic features, but in her amber eyes. The next words to fall from the Paladin's lips would be heavily influenced by the festering feelings that she contained deep within, mostly due to the desire to begin the hunt on her own, but despite how cruel they may sound, they would hold a degree of concern and truth that originated from proper observation of the clergyman standing before her.

"I commend your bravery, Father Vlad, I truly do. There are few mortal individuals nowadays who would dare to partake in hunting the supernatural outside of those that reside within organizations that specialize in such tasks, especially with such... archaic methods." She paused a moment, giving a cursory glance over the shoulder towards the silver javelin now lodged into the ground before turning back to the Father. "However, I condemn your foolishness and audacity with derision. The motivations that may have inspired you notwithstanding, as righteous as I'm sure they may be, the plaintive adroitness that you've demonstrated only moments ago would only lead to your demise against what lurks within this mist, I'm afraid. You are unsuited to combat that which stalks the night."

Veronica's gaze momentarily shifted once again for a cursory glance into the mist that was held aloft around the village, a minor gesture of annoyance came in the form of one of her crossed arms lifting slightly, an extended finger pointing towards the sky in what could only be an indication of impatience. Deciding to progress the situation a bit more swiftly in light of the strain being put upon the mental facilities employed to suppress the overflowing urges, Corvis once again locked a gaze with the priest as the lifted arm fell back into place across her chest atop the other. "My sympathies, Father. I'm sure it was difficult to watch the flock you so adored be brought to such dwindling numbers by treacherous wolves, but now that I've arrived I can make up for my dilatoriness by fulfilling your wish of erasing the plague that has befallen your town."

The Paladin paused, pondering only for a moment about the next words to speak before finally doing so. "Information is about the only thing I require. I apologize if this may seem a bit rushed, but I wish to begin my own hunt as soon as possible. Firstly, when dealing with a pack, one must assume that there is a den where they congregate when they become inactive. I will require it's location, if you know of it. Secondly, I'd like to inquire as to their numbers, even if you only have rough estimates. I have some of my own based on the details, but I'd like to get a more sourced opinion on just how many I may have to deal with."

Truly, the thought of lycans traveling in groups was a curious thing, enough to warrant a small pause in the Paladin's list of necessities. Typically, they were not pack animals by nature due to the sheer power that each individual one wielded, so it was almost unthinkable for them to amass into structured groups like typical wolves. The fact that they were a race bordering on extinction provided proof that pack arrangements almost never occurred, for a pack of those things would be impossible for anything to overwhelm. The thought of facing such overwhelming odds only served to make her all the more excited, giving rise to the thought of how they would fair against the overflowing tendencies that had planned to release upon them, which brought the briefest of smirks to the Bloodhounds lips.

Regaining the train of thought previously held before being sidetracked by the curious inquiry and reacquiring the stoical facade, the contemplation of which only taking the briefest on moments on the Paladin's part, Corvis turned briefly to retrieve the previously deflected spear of silver protruding from the ground. Twirling the lengthy weapon swiftly between the deft fingers that were familiar with the motions and feel of metal, she directed the pommel in Father Vlad's direction in a motion for him to take it. "Thirdly, this may sound cruel, but I don't need amateurs becoming a liability. This toy of yours may be made of silver, but it's utterly useless if you cannot hit the intended target. So I need you to return inside the church, preferably to the securest room you have, and remain there until I've finished my extermination. If all goes well, Father, I'll have exterminated this infestation that's taken refuge in your town by dawn."

"It is often through the old methods ve hold true in our vays, and maintain tradition that keeps us civilized, no?" Vlad reasoned back as he found himself inquisitive about the nun's views, not as a matter of suspicion but rather as a matter of curiousity. She was nothing like anyone he had ever come across in his time on this forlorn Earth where misery and despair seem rife, only need one look into the crevices to unveil the festering carcass of stagnation to see the true effects of mankind's woes. Something he never came in terms with personally. He didn't seem to buy in on her remarks, and neither his own sincerity, for lack of a better word, feeling empty inside, perhaps just as equally jaded? "But I understand your concern... now you must understand my own. It is better I die on my feet, than to die cowering under bedsheets. If I can even spare a second for these people, for their continued existence in service of self-preservation, then I vill do so gladly. I may not be a man of action... rather I prefer my pursuits in solitude and in peace, but I vill not lay down easily... but enough about that, I don't want to bore you with philosophy, Sister."

Her words prickled at him like tiny gnats biting, every current deigning to make him lose his temper, but he had long learnt to be patient, and not to bristle under such insults. It would be most unsuitable especially in a situation like this, what with being surrounded by wolves, and with his only new visitor being a source of help. Weighing his options of smacking her across the face with the back of his hand, which in itself is uncharacteristic of him, he had decided to only imagine such slights to inflict on herself with a look of almost instantaneous amusement on his lips. It was soothing. Still, those scars, he found himself also staring at them. Everything about her screamed drenched in blood, that he could tell the scent about her was weighed heavy in lead, long having spent her years perhaps as a militant, though his astute eyes can discern said scars aren't exactly that old, but rather recent. He had an eye for physiology after all.

Brushing his hair back with a swipe of his palm, he let loose a sigh. She certainly had a cankerous way of describing his supposed ineptitude. He was rusty for goodness sake, flinging javelins that was. Looking back, to the mountains, already taking the many hints of her imposed impatience, he would point to the way to the den, which he last cataloged, with a gesture of his right index finger on his outstretched arm bearing direction at the belly of the beast. "I vill hold you no more, granted I doubt I am at a current capacity to impose, therefore I'll see you off on your vay. In the mouth of a grove, there lies a trove. Jove said 'I vanquish thee', and with it came the forlorn scree. Go there, with that poem in mind, as ancient and distasteless as it is, and bevare. These are now their hunting grounds, their land, and it will be our blood that'll be shed... these hunters are like no others of human make, but of deadlier... beastly qualities. Godspeed, young Sister, and best of luck with your endeavors."

Looking back to Veronica, he took the silver polearm at hand, looking at it as he he held it with care, so not to ruin the delicate instrument now cuddled with a few patches of mud around its once clean and shiny surface hide. He took the opportunity to walk past Veronica, and head onward to the Church. He didn't like hiding, but might as well prepare this moment for defense. None of the villagers ever came out, but that's how he preferred it, for them to stay secluded whilst she continues her own hunt...

Meanwhile.

In the outskirts of the forest, thick with trees, and heavy with fog that only a few feet can be seen, the silver eyes of two of the lads stared outward at the village from acres apart, nothing but specks on the trees worth no details, they stared. Looking from one to another, they instinctively nodded to the developments. They could not hear, but they could clearly see from far away. The female and the male, twins they were, not of the old brood, and neither untested as the new, smiled to the prey that'll come, blending into the fogs as the shadows proved their sanctuary in their disappearance, and this new game their latest and ripest of spoils... truly, is the hunt worthier all the more now.

In Veronica's current state of mind, which was a maelstrom of violent desire on the verge of consuming the reason she had been able to currently maintain, the Father's inquisitive response was rather comical as a modicum of thought was given to it in momentary contemplation. How many had died in ages long since past due to the very archaic methods of hunting that this priest was defending? How many huddled around primeval fires as others were devoured by that which stalked the night, because those very methods being so inefficient, the likes of which was demonstrated only moments ago? Truly, it was all amusing to an extent, and a part of the Bloodhound wondered just how quickly the Father would be overcome by the white veil of mist if she had let him indulge the suicidal thoughts brought about by detrimental devotion?

She visually smirked, foregoing any effort to maintain the facade of stoic professionalism any longer. "Maintaining tradition might keep you civil, Father, but we see how civility has worked out for this place when danger descended upon it... The things that have been devouring our kind since time immemorial care little about our traditions, and the thought of maintaining it for something so inessential has cost countless lives. The old is not always best." The Nun paused a moment, casting another cursory glance with amber eyes that radiated a golden hue of repressed desire, the predatory look betraying everything she had been striving to conceal, surveying the surrounding veil of misty white in the direction the Priest pointed, referring to the den's location.

The mist truly hid nothing from the Bloodhound's vibrant gaze, but she would have to wrap up here before demonstrating that to the mongrel pups that likely crept about in concealment. The Father's words were still intriguing to say the least, and the modicum of thought she dedicated to responding was very curt. "Then it's a good thing you're not a man of action, Father." She finally said, turning to fully face the den's direction with arms falling by her sides. "You not going down easy would simply be the equivalent of them playing with their food. Once again, I commend your bravado, but hubris only leads to ruination. Especially when standing against that which you know nothing about. I thank you for the information, however, and I am grateful for your assistance, but it's time I... engross myself in my work."

The Nun took only a step before turning to look at the priest over a raised shoulder, concealing a sadistic grin torn across the bloodhounds fair lips. "Hunters like no others of human make, you say? Come now, that's obvious isn't it, Father? These are your kind of hunter, but they are my kind of prey... Returning the burning gaze filled with twisted desire back towards the treeline, Veronica extended an arm out to the side in a motion of blurred distortion. It was a gesture that resembled one making a grand declaration to an amassed assembly, which she was, in a sense, but the unseen congregation that would harken to this mental command would soon make their presence known in a violent display akin to a volcanic eruption of golden illumination.

Thousands of Gospel Pages that were enveloped in a heavenly hue of bright yellow erupted from the satchels placed upon the Paladin's lower back, the pages fluttering and spurring with what seemed anticipation and exhilaration that was shared by their mistress as they speared skyward into a large swirling pillar, as if the pages themselves were affected in some way by the suppressed emotions that Corvis was on the verge of unleashing. Standing amidst the tornado-esque display that made the mist itself begin to slowly circulate, the Bloodhounds entire figure becoming obscured as nothing more than a silhouette, concealing all but the amber eyes which peered out from within the vortex. Then, suddenly, as if she had never existed, the Paladin's shadowy form disappeared as the swirling mass finally ascended, carrying the Bloodhound within their concealing embrace across the night sky.

The speed at which the pages traversed the stygian skies would only take a minute to reach the established destination that was the treeline, which the golden cloud would penetrate without difficulty. The golden vortex would come to a landing on the forest floor, revealing the shadowed figure of the Bloodhound rising to a standing position amongst them, creating an imposing scene akin to a monster amidst a wrathful storm. They would not leave the Nun's vicinity, they would continue their aerial dance as Veronica began to trek forward on foot. All signs of professionalism had evaporated, replaced with actions that indicated a being depraved. The woman's deft hands clenched and unclenched with anticipation, ready to instantly be filled with the blessed fangs concealed within her sleeves, teeth gritted with the carnal grin of sadistic orientation as the surging storm of lascivious thoughts finally broke free from the mental dams that kept them in check, and usually stoic features, which were all but gone, became flushed with pinkish-red at the desire to finally make the worthless mongrels scream.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are... Little Red Riding Hood is here, and she wants to play~!" Tracing the heinously smirked lips with her tongue after speaking, the words practically dripped with a disturbing salaciousness that was allowed to purposely echo throughout the surrounding woodlands in an attempt to finally draw at least one or two of the pathetic pests. She would know if they became close, as her sixth sense was always alert, filled with the desire that now freely pumped through the Nun's body to bring pain unto others... She hoped they would oblige, at least to temporarily tide her over until she reached the den.

Last edited by Veronica Corvis on Wed Nov 05, 2014 1:03 pm; edited 1 time in total

"So you say from experience I imagine, but experience colours our reception to what we know differently, sister, it is not objective but a subjective matter on what is and is not effective... tradition allows us to refine methods, to build up on the foundation of progress to enhance those techniques, a fact we often forget the essence of in place of obstinate blind adherence. But I won't argue you on philosophical differences of whether tradition or innovation serves us better, as we have more pressing matters to attend to, yes?" Vlad said rather sagely, he then rubbed the bridge of his nose as he'd nod to see the wayward soul off in her adventures to do what she indulges in most. Honestly, why did they of mysteries have to send a difficult person to deal with these creatures of the mist anyways? Ah well, he considered that he should see this whole transitional replacement of that creature with the nun to be far more palpably pleasing than to suffer another moment with the mist creatures any longer, which is to say infinitely so as he'll finally have time to get back to work than to actually have to shore up defenses and the like. Not that he expected her to realize the irony of her statement in traditional methods, knowing that she works for an organization that precisely adheres to traditional means, or rather much better to say tried and tested means of taking down the supernatural.

For a moment, he froze as she turned her head to look at him with those eyes of hers, bloodthirsty and so filled and rife with murderous intent, counting the seconds to be longest as the tenseness was pregnant with some hair trigger action. Had he actually brought his doom by replacing the wolves whom detest his kind, with another that presumes to know him so merely out of philosophical differences? "They are the hunter of all, and everyone is prey regardless of their abilities. You will find out the hard way perhaps, alone and without support, but I do not envy your bravado, or jealously desire the same recklesness." His statements came but a whisper unheard to naught but the keenest of hearers but cancelled out by the breezy whistle of wind overriding such voice as he did not aim to share this sentiment with her, but saw her off to do what she wanted most of all ever so evident to him -- fight these creatures head on in their greatest advantage -- the concealment of fog. However, he found himself surprised to see the true extent of her abilities, and jotted them down as ultimately typical of Faeth and its pedigree of capabilities often done so through the mediums of things endowed in thoughts otherwise rendered holy or to pertain with texts that are of holy wisdom and knowledge, scriptures and such behind a veneer of ambivalent vagueness belaying wisdom. He took to parting away lest he obstructs any of her pages, as they fluttered about into the winds tarrying into the direction onward them of the forest hunt. Turning around a full 180 degrees, he runs over at a jogging stroll to the Church, he too disappearing into the mist.

What occurred next would entail only after such proclamations of an allegory to tale, one of a defenseless scarlet girl found ironically rife with capabilities of defense, among a den of wolves, hungry and harkening with prolonging a hunt glorious such as this for the Mistress of the Night.

And yet her display of strength dawned with a revelation stark at the behest of her scriptures, clouds thickened with sheens of silverish vapour as the bloodmoon dawned highest, shining red unnatural a colour overhead the rest of mother Earth itself. As if it was rife with water, it inflicted a certain heaviness that would slow if not outright hamper the scriptures of holy endowment as to dim their potency to almost their quarter effectiveness, had they submerged themselves into the forests fumigated with fog, one that reaches even up to the highest of fat trees oaken in nature. The blood moon's gaze bored into the holiness away had it caught gaze of them, replacing it with a sheer sense of wrongness nauseatingly rife on unnatural excrement-like stink to the soul, overridingly blinding the senses had the fogs been traversed into as they were all around and about the forestry where the den should be located at as it became clear why THEY are the hunters than the hunted. As if imaginary eyes peered from every dark corner of the forest, and to be seen reveals naught but emptiness in the supposed place from whatever concealment of shrubbery that offered them a veil of refuge to sight by the shade of darkness paradoxically where upon the moon does not reach. Recoiling whatever holiness had to offer with UNholiness.

It was clear what was the fate of the hunted were. Tied upside down from various tree branches before Veronica from their heels a set of ropes were binding them together, were numerous corpses all decorating the forest. Some old, rotten and stinky, and others rather fresh, still dripping with blood, stripped naked of skin and bearing the threads of red musculature all around in their baser form, all castrated be they men and women, and missing huge lumps of their softest flesh with no bones, that being the ample buttocks which is said to be loaded up with a pleasing amount of taste, so such sentiments were thought of cannibals, but these are no cannibals.

The fog soon turned blood red the further Veronica traversed deeper in had she opted for such an option of advancing, still a good while away from the intended destination where all depraved evils originate to torment the region, yet things remain static in that regard had she chosen not. And then something had happened that was perhaps overlooked due to the heaviness of the fogs where only the farthest five feet can be seen with clarity, and the rest hardly seen -- a hole filled heavily with mud, camouflaged as it resembled the rest of the earthen soil in texture, would be present before Veronica's footing right below her, deep enough to sink her in right down to her thighs, and yet it was not quicksand, it was not meant to hold her there. From an unseen vicinity, had the chance of her actually persist with her falling into the mud as a success, from far above her skyward descending to Earth in an almost perfect vertical descent, a normal arrow with a sharpened end of wooden make lacking anything to make it whistle through the air as the disembodied cackles of the forest originating all around with no discernible direction, loudly proclaimed the amusement of the hunters in their invisible harassment of the woman nun. Said wooden projectile spearing for her in high speed velocities almost akin to a bullet right towards her superior temporal line akin to her parietal bone arched and segmented on her head.

Yet had she dodged the arrow, a set of bolas spun towards her legs updated on her new location had she moved with a consistent aim, originating from behind her towards her thighs as they were intended to wrap around her and bring her to a trip once more. Their location veiled by clouds, and they bother not with revealing themselves from their hiding places, nor exert themselves in the presence of a woman whom is seen as naught but a mere baby prey foolishly coming to the slaughter.

The inhibition once held had been swallowed by the vehement maelstrom of venereal thought churning within the Bloodhound's mind, the constraints once repressing the ferocious yearning for schadenfreude had utterly shattered from the overwhelming escalation, and with them went any and all remnants of the concealing facade that was usually present upon the Bloodhounds visage. Veronica, lost within what could only be considered a primal, carnal craving to satiate the one innate, sadistic desire that would have brought about utter mortification if she were within the right state of mind, but was otherwise etched within the very essence of her being, had been denied fulfillment for too long, and thus no amount of reason could awaken the Nun from the urge's control until it was satisfied.

Stalking the sodden forest floor as what could now be considered nothing more than a walking embodiment of sadistic desire ready to be unleashed, dictating bodily movements as if she were but a marionette at it's mercy, the Bloodhound's focus had become refined by the harbored impulses currently overflowing. All senses were heightened, including that of the sixth sense commonly utilized by the Nun to locate those of supernatural origin, which had become somewhat diluted within the mist's embrace, but not to the point of a disadvantage, due to the desire to locate the prey she had been given. Every mental and physical faculty had been coalesced and devoted to the single purpose of detecting the soon-to-be subjects of unimaginable pain that lurked within the veil of mist.

The atmosphere that had suddenly become laden with an obvious supernatural influence only served to further exhilarate an already euphoric Veronica, the shudder of further excitement that crept along the woman's spine somehow reverberating through the violently swirling vortex of Gospel Pages that encompassed the Bloodhound, as if the rapturous feelings felt by their master had somehow transferred upon the pages themselves. The resulting vibrations within the floating sheets of golden luminescence, which began to shine even brighter, had all but negated the effects of the otherwise oppressive influence that the mist tried to impose. In fact, it had accomplished the exact opposite, as the pages, at the subconscious command of their master, had began to increase in the speed of their rotation, as if to show their own signs of anticipation.

They were already saturated in a sheer sense of what many would consider wrongness, as if they almost had desires of their own to bring about suffering and death, which was likely engrained by the sadistic Paladin who held absolute dominion over them. There wasn't a single outside influence that could debilitate the lustrous golden forms, nor impose unwanted imbibition, for the vibrant forms of Gospel that typically shone with feelings of comfort and security had all but been tainted by the insidious desires of the Bloodhound, to which they willingly accepted and radiated with in kind, immune to all other attempted authority which, to the levitating swarm of pages, seemed truly insignificant in comparison. Despite their innate holy aspects which would still function as such, they were now embodiments of their masters own human desire - a physical extension of which to bring blissful pain and suffering to those foolish enough to be noticed.

The overflowing desire grew evermore upon the Bloodhound finally traversing far enough to lay eyes upon what she would have ordinarily called a grizzly scene, but was instead labeled an orgasmic display by what she had currently become. In truth, she imagined a similar scene befalling the pesky mongrels who continued to deny Corvis any chance at release, in that suffering and pain of unimaginable heights would be bestowed upon them with a gleeful fury that would briefly reach such a height to which neither heaven nor hell would be able to match. In fact, Corvis took an extra moment to savor the scene, crossing shivering arms in a manner that resembled a self-embrace as a shudder rocked throughout her very being, the result of which forced the woman to bite her lower lip to prevent any audible sounds from being produced, though it was not entirely successful as a small, lewd moan did somehow escape. It was truly ashame she had not been there to witness it.

The moment spent and only serving to further motivate the depraved woman, Corvis once again began the muddy trek through the forest floor in hopes of finding the prey she so desperately sought, taking an amused interest in the sudden change in color the fog had undergone. If she had not been fully aware of the surroundings in which she stalked, which would be suicide in this case, she may have stumbled within the hole of mud so stringently camouflaged, but that was not the case. Every aspect of the Paladin's body was on alert, and upon stepping forward with the left foot, she had keen enough reflexes honed through years of training to prevent it from sinking any further than the ankle, allowing the Bloodhound' to prevent the mud bath that would have likely followed had she not taken notice.

Incidentally, having avoided what was obviously a trap, the swirling vortex of pages that had maintained a perimeter around their master had acted as a warning system for the incoming arrow as it brushed against several of their aloft forms on it's way towards it's target, which gave ample warning by the sound created for Corvis to simply take a complementary step backwards where the lethal projectile would harmlessly impale the mud. Then, taking notice of a foolish presence that had dared get within the range she possessed, Corvis continued with the momentum of the step she had taken and turned it into a reflexive backflip, avoiding the bolas and putting her into a crouched position not far behind the pool of mud.

Quickly rising to a standing position, Veronica tracked the creature who had attempted to restrict her mobility by means of the sixth sense that she had come to be known for. True enough, the mist provided a minor and rather annoying interference that was tedious, but it hardly provided anything as detrimental as outright negation like it would to a vampire's "third eye". Then, words dripping with ecstasy flew from her lips, unrestrained and uncontrolled, followed a heinous laughter. "Finally!!! Let me hear you scream!

Appearing instantaneously as the words were spoken, by combined effort of blurred practice and the brief obscuring provided by the whirling dome of pages around her, three crucifixion stakes had manifested between the fingers of Corvis' right hand, to which they were released with such speed that their forms blurred into nothing but silver streaks. They were aimed with pinpoint accuracy towards the one she sensed within her range, having tracked his movements and aimed accordingly to compensate. Crucifying that of supernatural speeds was hardly a chore for someone with the experience she possessed, and given the velocity and force the stakes had been thrown with, which would be enough to embed fully into concrete, nothing short of a thick tree would impede their trajectory. She maintained a sense of her surroundings, however, already well aware that she was outnumbered during this assignment.

And so the hunt beckons as Neto has sent another prey to the fold, though whether or not she be worthy is yet to be determined, as the youngest among the duo licked the sullen lips with an ecstatic respect for the flesh to be feasted. He could see clearest from beyond the veil made by the Night Mistress's very own capabilities, those well sculpted muscles, slabs made in a mixture of finesse and mired in natural beauty that those eyes could look past and make a prediction of based on the outline of the body, formely and disciplined as it were. Firstly though, the one closest decided and absolved himself of the idea that these pages were bad news, to take it away would leave the pray ripe, that it would be unfair to measure such an opponent through the reliance on Gospel pages, as loath the closest to admit.

It felt anxious, near the flurry of holiness, rather than nauseated like the vampires. Though not an abomination of nature, but rather a symbiotic melding of man and beast, the werewolf had ultimately ordained it that these pages were conceptually rejecting all that does not fit with the ideal of human manifest destiny. That includes any that stands as predators over mankind, and that includes werewolves, whom tend to be difficult to take down conventionally, hence the unconventional nature of the nun could be discerned clearly.

They knew that the extent of the mist was not at its most saturated heaviness which inflicts a rather extreme sense of oppression as one would infer upon reception of nearer proximity to the variable exuding an array of closely linked fog of unnatural make. The closest one had scryed her sudden production of papers of infernable qualities damning all those that did not seem to coincide with whatever manifest destiny notions of the Holy See as it had taken out a rather emergency kitting in times like these, were the hunt to be proven worthier. Furred and yet not fully turned, the closest gleaming of silvery streaks of hide had produced a sack, and a flint piece. Putting one into its mouth, and the other one held before itself as the nun would backflip over the bolas, and even evade the cleverly placed hole which is spread all around the forest to ensnare many unsuspecting elements, though had they waited, the one closest to Veronica thought, they would have no doubt seen less susceptibility to actually being betrayed in knowledge to the trap's existence being brought naked and bare before her realm of knowing.

The Lycanthrope who was closer to Veronica decided that as she managed to obscure whatever sight of herself with them gospel pages all around her as it itself was standing by a tree which it had approached, its left arm obscured as it came to a staggering halt right by it, a few feet away from the human of demented quality seemingly having spied before her departure into the unknown of pages that face rife with orgasmic bliss, to which left the furry creature befuddled, would indeed stuffed the contents of the sack into its mouth prior, but not swallowing it into its stomach, retaining its place within the confines of its oral caverns.

Luckily three of the crucifixion stakes were thrown at the closest instead of bullets, and unluckily, they were silver. They speared towards the werewolf, and yet the lycanthrope let loose a howl of pain as one of them had managed to impale its wrist, degrading it into nothing more than shriveled up hide as the infectious necrotic influences virulently traveled through the forearm, and to the arm itself. A misfortune of chance made happening as the werewolf had tried to dodge to the tree right by its side by heading behind it but too late, that the one stake had managed to impale, and the other two imbedding deep into the thick tree, leaving behind a chunk of wood bursting outwards as it scars the plant life, causing halfway hollowness in the tree.

The werewolf immediately as it had seen its arm shrivel up, grasp it, and rip it off in one fell tug, watching it burst into dust as its fate was closely to be shared had the arm been left on a moment longer to this blessed contamination. Taking a moment to recuperate as blood spewed out aplenty, seething with guttural heavy breathing that rasped on in its semi-lycan form, the closest grits its teeth and bares with the pain springing to mind of losing a limb, laboring a breath with every heave of its chest rising as a mixture of annoyance, and fear of the weapons she possesses panged into mind. Not of the woman herself, oh no, not the human woman, despite every fibers in its body screaming of her danger, it suppressed such notions as it thought it to be its instincts churning out fear from the silver she has, and the accursed holiness mired with her own putrid incandescence.

That moment passes as immediately it steps out of its cover ruined by the silvered stakes, and stepping opposite of where it had discarded its arm, a great amount of foggy dust blows out of its mouth, spreading swiftly as the wind carried it towards Veronica's vicinity and overall being as to envelope her in a fumigation of grey, only to drift downwards slowly, as they would make for past her gospels that had it been validated going within along with air, sparks fly out of its mouth, igniting the ashen smoke into combustion. The wolf-being's mouth is sung black as the fluids were evaporated in its cavity, but its durability and tried and tested regeneration held true to the flames that suddenly ignited in its mouth. The combustion trail traveled along towards Veronica and ignited a path that too set fire to the grass beneath, bringing about flames. A passionate, yet uncontrollable element the wolf had tried to tame in its haste.

Curiously from afar, no response was forthcoming from the one distanced away.

"Hhhh... Neto shall be pleased by the roasted flesh we'll have tonight!" It cried out in its masculine guttural voice, rasping and wheezing with obvious pain. "Your God... is not with you, filth, and the hunt continues unabated! Only you'll scream like a stuck pig..." Proclamations done so early and at such provocation to the Bloodhound.

The crucifixion stakes that surreptitiously represented the sadistic tendencies harbored deep within the Bloodhound under the duplicitous ruse of symbolizing Christ's death upon the Cross by imprinting that very pain upon the enemies of the Church, presumably so that they would understand their folly in descending into the evil darkness that offered them competence, had found their target only moments upon leaving their mistress's expert grasp with an extremely satisfying cessation. The resulting wail of agony that was forced into the air by the wounded mongrel unworthy of being called anything close to a wolf was more audible to Corvis than the sound of the unfortunate destruction of the perennial plant's trunk, and it was truly bliss incarnate to the woman who was now nothing more than a twisted, carnal embodiment who had surrendered to the intemperate tempo set by the concupiscent maelstrom festering within.

Yes, yes! This is it! This is what I've been waiting for! Scream! Scream for me! The mental acknowledgement of the gratification contorted the Paladin's visage into an expression signifying the achievement of something long desired and painted a portrait of overt hedonism; amber eyes filled with inimical lechery widened and fair lips grew into a lascivious grin as a culminated shudder claimed the Paladin's body as it's own lewd vessel, becoming a the trigger needed for an act of deliverance relating to the thoughts swirling madly within. The shivering embrace was reciprocated with translucent results beginning to slither down the woman's inner-femorals, suffusing the undergarments and colored stockings that comprised the articles of clothing worn beneath the length of the heavily modified habit of a Catholic Nun, translating into a momentarily-yet-abiding reaction that only created an even stronger hunger. Absolutely nothing impeded the Bloodhound's following actions that would be undertaken through the convincing of demanding thoughts that spurred physical motion; I will have more! More, more, more, more! I 'need' it!!

In the same moment that the sickening-yet-arousing sound of the lycan severing the afflicted limb that plagued him, Corvis' figure would disappear within the swarming sea of tainted gospel pages as their circulatory speeds increased dramatically, obscuring anything within the enveloping sphere they had created around the mistress who held dominion over them. The swam itself would stay, violently dancing in the misted air as if to entice an onslaught, yet Veronica would be carried skyward, beyond the lycan's auditory senses due to the fluttering sounds of the pages melding together as one, and line of sight, as he fixed his attention forward to disperse a fine grain cloud that smelled comparably to gunpowder. The moment the lycan had carried out his plan, which was ignited by a spark of flint within his teeth, the pages he had targeted dispersed in every opposite direction of the incoming explosion; riding the heat generated to further assist in escaping the expanding blaze. Only a minor amount of pages were singed, their edges burnt black, smoldering and trailing smoke, but still available for overall use.

The Paladin Bloodhound, on the other hand, had utterly ignored the expansive flame which was birthed with the purpose of barbequing her, for she had descended behind the one-armed beast after quickly having acutely arched across the sky to a suitable position, landing not three yards from his rear. A wall of gold luminance would shine brightly from behind as the scattered pages that narrowly avoided being burnt to cinders coalesced once more in the skies above as a swirling sea before suddenly descending to rejoin their mistress. This mongrel had been chosen as the first receptacle for Nun's sadistic desire, and it was deemed so by the shape upon which the gospel pages that provided transportation had constructed. Golden and massive, enshrouding the Bloodhound's rising form in a veiled silhouette of which only the amber of the woman's eyes vibrantly shown forth, concealing the crucifixion stakes already in hand, the fluttering pages had formed the shape of a crude skull which radiated the desire to bring about blissful agony, the uneven features only accentuating the horrid atmosphere in which it produced.

Asymmetrical jaws, opened and wide, lurched forth with Veronica's own step forward, as if to simulate devouring the wounded animal and to give rise to a moments hesitation, only for the held stakes to be loosed toward the creature to exploit the potential opening, acting as the true fangs of a much more dominate animal. Appearing as silver streaks of light and nothing more, tearing across the short distance with baffling speeds even from such a close range, they would slice through the air as sadistic denticles whom desired nothing more than to crucify, intent on digging into the flesh of the pathetic creature's remaining wrist and both of his legs with enough force to shatter concrete, and enough velocity to, if such contact was achieved, to carry him across the distance of scorched land and pin him to one of the many trees that comprised the topography of the surrounding environment.

"My God is not with me? Squeal like a stuck pig? The hunt unabated?" Came a verbal response from the woman's trembling voice, cracked with periodic pauses of maniac giggling and filled with lustful excitement and insidious desire. Ordinarily, such a comment would have stirred some form of religious zealotry, but not now. Adherence to religious doctrine had become all but forgotten, for tonight was for self-indulgence. It was a good thing that God may have been looking away, for he would not wish to witness what she was going to do with these pathetic cretins. This woodland would become her dungeon, and she would fill it with a symphony of blissful screams, unrivaled agony, and utter torment. It was not a God's place to trespass, let alone witness the very side that she kept concealed from others more intimately known, more trusted, and more competent, and only known to one. Corvis would have the satisfaction that she sought, and it would be witnessed only by those who's torment she would bathe in.

Veronica's posture became unaligned yet still perfectly balanced, alert and ready to react upon an instinctual moments notice as the sea of gospel pages had completed their descent from the heavens above, crashing down around the Paladin's leaned back form with arms dangling at her sides, head cocked slightly with the same disturbing expression of lustful, sadistic desire plastered upon the visage she possessed. She appeared as nothing but a marionette held aloft by the strings of carnal compulsion. "There are no putrid gods in this forest tonight! There is only my desire for release and those who are going to satiate it with their flesh, blood, and screams! This hunt is no longer yours, but mine. I will make it last for as long as there are numbers in your pack, and I will ride their screams into ecstasy until there are none left!"

And the other afar had taken the moment opportunity to set and ruffle the territory with his own placement. Coming across to prepare for the coming of the Bloodhound, so erroneously thinking herself such, when at this point, wisest as the farthest may be, thought to make it as hard as possible for this was no mere quarry, but rather a delicious feast, a hunt over a hunter presuming herself a predator. Such hilarity fell short of irony before the archer, as he had mulled over ideals of which meat served tender most when sating a thirst and hunger for flesh and blood alike within his interior guts. Even clouded by a fog of unholy make, of sheer potency as far as it can be from the Mistress of the Night, mighty be she, he can foresee and look beyond such veils for they are unimportant to his eyesight, seen as impertinent, thus unworthy of attention, rather it is the person dwelling within coming to blows with one of their weakest of kin, trading blows and such. The night was ever so young, and this person chose to champion the cause of Father Vlad, a mere deviant of the Church whom thinks himself able to judge the werewolves as an opposition to their hunt, now seen to his will made manifest through the inclusion of the Bloodhound as one to herald the trifling end times.

Renault felt at a loss between despair, fear, hope, and the unnatural bewilderment to the scent investing within his nostrils as he mulls over the loss of his arm. It was a familiar scent often excreted by those excited over some carnal activity, brought to lull over actions of procreation, the lubrication before the fulfilling act of solid ramming brought to bear between thighs, or so at least normal convention would hold, was clearest as day before the winds bringing such smell of sharp savory aroma before its nostrils, but humans are ever rarely held by what is natural, opting for what is unnatural in their most common activities made most abundant, in what would be described as purely hedonistic, if not disconcerting over that smell, the sheer wrongness of its conception and that craven face twisted in the lullaby of lustful intent over something enjoyable that he could not see but guess to be present given the sharp musk, but ultimately not gratifying as combat. No, not gratifying in this measure. The pain addled twisted face of the Lycanthrope sunk into a sea of hazy emotions half brought to anguish, and half brought to confusion in a cauldron and ocean of emotions swirling as he calculated EVERYTHING he could towards equating at survival within every nanosecond, and never lost hope nor faith in the Night Mistress, for what deity exists not in the realms of man, at least she was as clear and existent as the night and day before he.

It was something to account, the smell, intermixed within the gunpowder, the sulfuric burnt charcoally roast infesting his nostrils, and a scent, that as oblique and ever so almost non-existent given the expulsion of wind from the explosion of fire, for a lapsed moment, had not trod near Renault in face of his own mouth burnt with steam now regenerating after the compound was breathed out in an emulation of the draconic, but only just that, emulation. It was too late however, as vain hope had come down in a tumble of loss for what commenced were beyond the deigned intent incurred late and if not absolutely invalid for what he turned, feeble and slow, around, to face the incoming opposition from what scent growing highest in its heady musk perverse and most profane, had tipped only later in spite of the nostril sharpest for his Lycan make, had availed him not a salvation, that even before the palpable anxiety gripping his heart in terror cold with its spidery fingers crawling through as beads of sweat rolled down his brows, he had, to his very dread fear realized, saw himself undone.

She was not apparent ahead but rather behind, a fact realized too late. Little of what gambit thrown desperately unrealized in lack of fruition completely, as her actions, despite measured by sadism and deliberation, came far too late in knowledge to betray her so, as each shimmer of silver carved themselves into a new home at his now atrophying muscles at his present front as he turned to face her. His muscular powerful body, an engine of destruction, becoming nothing more than a feeble old man's thinness as holes bore widest, hugging the stakes from the orifice that is recent, around the wound newest, fizzling with smoke and close to eruption of fire. His chest dissolved into naught but particles of sand-like ashen dust, his own folly for what intended for his manipulator extremities, wrists and what have you, were interrupted by his turning and stepping to the side, had it been not of speeds akin to bullets, would have found themselves successful in pinning him absolutely, instead, his movements to the right of the woman whom was behind him, now front, had born this death perhaps prematurely.

Perhaps she will burst into a torrent of disappointment and rage, even Renault was disappointed in himself -- he had fallen ever so quickly, underestimation being his creed of this woman whose thighs ran with translucent beads of honeyed fluids, the scent, it was nothing like blood, nothing of that kind. He could not help but marvel at the irony of his death was not as he intended to be out of something ultimately an unyielding spirit unwavering before the sight of antagonism, but feeble and weak instead coerced its way through his lips, receding now into that of a human's, as he lets out a gasp, what intended a roar, instead a gasp of surprise. Pathetic to the end as he rasped out a last sigh to the burning pain running through his veins, running through his very essence. Darkness enveloped him, and he saw no light, no promises of an afterlife, but instead, the chaos of entropy, a realm where perverse laughter rang, and mad overlords giggled in delight to the new plaything coming to absolve them of boredom. This was not what he expected...

"My... Night Mistress..." He whispered in a hush, as everything went pain.

Before Veronica, dust gathered from the were-animal's form, cremated as he were pinned to the trees, somewhat, falling flat to the ground in a mound of miniature hill made out of greyish ashes, with the leftover silver that were unto the tree now holding nothing but an imprint of his blood making his quasi-figure clear in darkness, a shadow of what he once was.

His companion, far and apart, knew from the very fiber of his being that Renault drew his breath last, without any saving grace, nor the satisfaction gained from killing the youngest of their group, had he been the one to deliver the blow, and nor the sense of loss one gets from a comrade, for that creature was young, stupid rather, and he had served his purpose, unintentionally, of scrying the enemy's means. Holiness, he could see it skyward, so far away, and recognized the potential threats, that knowing the threat to come, turned about and sprinted across the forest grounds, as he was the farthest, to maybe either warn the Mistress of the Night, or perhaps turn this affair into something of an interesting game... only four remain, and the night was youngest yet for a secession of life to part so early, especially with an affair premature in its explosive finish as this, probably disappointing? Who knows?

There was a carnally euphoric ardor that, with the utmost bliss, was allowed to rapturously manipulate Veronica like a marionette. She was but a puppeted slave to the innate desires that she would routinely keep repressed until the point of overflowing inclination became too much to ignore. In fact, indulging in the feelings of elation as she was now, she couldn't be considered an instrument of divine punishment anymore. The duty she was assigned by the church had all by been swallowed, eroded, corrupted, and erased by the swirling torrent of wanting to selfishly satiate the brutal craving to revel in horrendous screams of anguish.

It was blatantly apparent upon the Bloodhound's visage, even, which was currently a domicile to cruel amber eyes that lecherously sparkled, cheeks painted with the flushed warmth of sensual desire, and a vicious grin born of sadistic cravings, all of which ascended to greater heights upon witnessing the pathetic excuse for an existence meet his end. It was something she would have ordinarily refuted, but currently, she would freely admit to the feelings of intense zeal and burning concupiscence that claimed her body upon inflicting pain and agony unto those who were unfortunate enough to cross the sadistic path she intended to carve.

However, there was something that had denied that euphoric feeling, and a quizzical look of bemusement cleared away the look of a sadistic creature of ravenous hunger which had dominated the Paladin's features for a long moment, choosing to observe the downed abomination in his death throes. The odd puzzlement even seemed to effect the violent vortex of swirling Gospel Pages which had immediately dispersed to spread wide around the circumference of their mistress, each and every one of their golden bodies shivering and trembling with some kind of unspoken demand, which was one that Veronica seemed to share.

This creature, even after having it's unholy figure violated by the silver fangs in which she graciously bestowed, it had seemingly refused to scream, but instead released a pitiful gasp?

"What is the meaning of this?!" She would snarl, enraged at the thought of not being rewarded with what she had wished to hear. It dared to leave this world, to endure her punishments, and deny her the very sounds of torment she desired bask in?! The Paladin's features would contort into an expression of utter rage and vexation, which would quickly become silhouetted as the aloft bible pages would suddenly erupt into a violent frenzy, revealing nothing but an amber gaze of sheer resentment locking upon the pile of useless dust that was once a plaything.

"Tsk! Something so pathetic... Someone so useless! Begone, worthless mongrel!" Suddenly, Veronica would violently throw an arm out to the side in some unspoken command, in which a significant portion of the gigantic amassment of biblical scripture would instantly converge on the ashen pile with what could only be called a seething fury. The golden pages of vivid illumination would surround the worthless pile of remains with a twisting formation that would savagely disperse the powder, scattering the particles into the atmosphere and erasing all traces of it's physical existence. Veronica had deemed that this was the only suitable fate of someone who refused to scream, who couldn't scream. If they could not grant the satisfaction she demanded, then they weren't even worth the unlife they surrendered themselves too, let alone a trace of their physical being.

Roughly biting down on her lower lip, mostly in the sheer disappointment of being denied, Corvis gave a mental command to the swirling pages that demanded they retrieve the loosed stakes, which they obediently complied. Upon retrieving all of them, in which the pages themselves wrapped their slender bodies around the stakes thick frames to carry them back to the hands of their awaiting mistress, Veronica placed them back within their proper storage areas and turned away from the unmarked grave she had just created. The Bloodhound would grit her teeth a moment later, the carnal desire which had been denied indulgence continuing to grow along with the hatred she harbored for these annoying pests.

"Neto? Night Mistress?" Veronica mused, recalling the names as the rage slowly subsided, surrendering to the previous state of mind that had treated her as but a puppet not moments before, the same ravenous grin carving it's way across a flushed face. She was unsure if they were the same person, but it was obvious that the latter was likely the pack leader with how the previous disappointment seemed to revere her. That, alone, was enough for Veronica to decide on possibly saving her for last.

If she was the pack leader, it meant that she would be the oldest, and the older a lycan was, the stronger they were. It was then that she decided to erase the mutts first and use them as a mere crescendo so that she could focus solely on this so called "Night Mistress". Corvis figured, if she was as powerful as it seemed, that she would be perfect for the sonata of the symphony of screams she had planned to ignite. "Until the rest of you rodents make this pathetic disappointment up to me, I annul your rights to death!"

The shout, purposefully loud so as to echo through the trees as a threatening challenge, would only last a moment, as Veronica would becoming suddenly consumed by the titanic mass of thousands of bible pages. The large swirling mass would suddenly disperse, breaking apart into multiple tendrils as a means of concealment and confusion, each of which being the same size, all of which shot off in the same direction along the forest floor. One of these many tendrils were effortlessly carrying Veronica, concealed amongst the numerous golden veils, as the dozens of illuminated, serpentine masses nimbly avoided various foliage and natural obstacles in their new found purpose, shifting through the trees like golden specters in search of another victim - preferably one with decent vocals.

Last edited by Veronica Corvis on Sun Dec 07, 2014 4:06 am; edited 1 time in total

And thus ended the tale of the wolf blooded enemy now vanquished in a most manner profane unbefitting some noble beast of yore, as he has spread into ashes that flew and spread in all directions, making for little cohesion that keeps the dust together, besides the sparkling glint of silver seen from each particle of dust oddly enough, more akin to a twinkle than that of a most debauched vampiric individual of recent literate lore. Veronica's rampage was not unnoticed for what companion known was oddly left unremarked for his arrows, that hastiness had undone his fellow hunter, but nonetheless as sorrowful as it were, he was left to the moment of now, to bide his time and watch. He had collected information on Veronica, and the following that could be discerned from the evil harpy could be said that her Bible scriptures were obviously toxic to wolfkind, but that goes without saying. The other was that she had an unusual amount of awareness for a human, something to detect predators perhaps, but that goes unremarked as what exactly it was. It knew that to be true because his arrows never miss, EVER. It was as silent as the whistle of the winds that carried it, and shot from a distance far and wide, the fact her existence was still there, the fact that his farthest of sight betrayed her alive, and his companion dead, meant that he must bide his time. She was powerful right now, but everything has a limit, everything. Though what baffled it most was the look of elation that was formerly on the priestess's face, from what little glimpsed... over killing an enemy? What manner of strange human is this? It confused him most.

Though he was broken out of his lull when spotting Veronica's explosion of papers dispersing into many different directions at once. How troublesome, perhaps these scriptures also had sensory abilities? If so, this bodes even poorly than thought, even with the Night Mistress's territory claim by mist, they were far too far away for them to have a profound effect of concealing him quite well. No, he had resolved that the odds were stacked against him, and instead, departed downward, dropping to the ground and hoping that perhaps one of the stray papers would not go near him. The traps he had set up all over the floors, scattered and many, cleverly hidden, completely rebuked by her tactics.

Pulling out an arrow, he did not have confidence it would get to its mark, but instead, sheathed it back into the pouch holding them, along with the bow hidden into a specially made holster. No, he instead resolved to pull out a weighted knife, kissing the metallic piece, it had occurred to him, through many precognitions he had, images that are rare in itself warning him of danger, came at an alarming scream at the back of his mind. In as many as a hundred scenarios, he had foreseen his death, and all just as gruesome. This wasn't true foretelling of the future, as much as a gauging of the opponent.

That newly gained knowledge had a bead of sweat roll past his human form brows, as he soon decided that his clothes might be giving him away. Disrobing of whatever leftover raiment he had on him, he'd smear mud all over his bare body, and over whatever leftover equipment he had, namely the belt, and the bow. It gave him a natural colour that mimicked the scenario. Next, he'd grit his teeth, and wait, only to see several pages pass by overhead. If he could see them clear as day, he'd guessed that they could see him too, down at the base of a large fat tree trunk, standing on the muddy ground soppy with the aftermath of a rain. It squelched with each press of his bare feet on its muddy surface, only for it to suddenly cease in sound as he tested his weight. This had only brought his chances up by a very small margin, but distressingly, he felt, it was not enough. That sexual maniac was out there looking for some toy to play with, YEARNING for it, and from his experience having seen it come several times in his lifetimes, this was not an opponent he would've loved to spend time with. Not out of danger, but out of a general distaste for bloodthirst in general. He had to be clear of mind, a sharp contrast to whatever muddled up cognition his opponent had, he'd guessed.

Smearing a fresh batch of wet soil over the flatness of his knife, leaving out the edges untarnished, whatever glints it would possess would be drowned out. He'd also twist the pommel till it was loose, priming his weapon as he felt his time had come. This was it, impress the Night Mistress, and perhaps he can be honored with being champion of the hunt, and then be able to go back to his clan of Courage Wolves with pride swollen in his chest.

"This is it... don't fail me Martha. You've helped me out so many times before, let this not be the one time you fail me. Neto, I have never prayed to you before, for I saw no use for it, but you have got to respect courage in the face of fear when merited. Grant me this one request, grant me victory. And if you do not listen, then to Hell with you!" He said, voice rife with defiance in as low a hushed as a whisper. This is it, he thought, the moment of truth. To hide, while so far away from the Church's Siren's position, now made null by sudden perception. Either he'd be hidden, he thought, and gather a new means to slay her while biding his time, or he'd have to fight her here, fruitlessly, with bleak odds. He chose to stay and watch for now. Fates aren't nice to him.

The countless serpentine bodies of golden radiance went about their tortuous paths that each had been mentally assigned by their Mistress, who was concealed and carried within one of the many, swiftly traversing the forested landscape with the utmost proficiency as extensive and vivid contrails that radiated the very same concupiscent desire that was tempestuously dominating the Bloodhound's current motivations, thoughts, and movements. Effortlessly did the twisting tendrils of scripture maneuver, graceful and radiant, sinuously bypassing the natural obstacles that were proposed by the temporarily illuminated evironment with the Paladin, sat aloft within the secured airborne confines of the countless gospels, facilely eluding the various other amusingly cowardly traps that she had come to suspect were bestrewn along the detritus from the previous encounter she had not moments earlier.

The ominous mist that laid it's claim upon the surrounding land was something of an odd sort, as it provided a minor interference with the innate ability that Veronica had refined throughout the length of her life, which would be accurately described as an intrinsic yet commonly dormant ability within the likes of the human species to sense the supernatural creatures that had preyed upon them since time immemorial. It was an extremely trivial intervention, much akin to an infrequent and erratic haze. Unfortunately for the pests that danced about within the mist's pale shroud, it made little difference. The Bloodhound had originally began to scour the woodlands with the intention of catching one of the rodents within the range of her senses, not because she already had, and it wasn't long before it had occurred.

A rousing tingle of sensation crept upon the length of the Bloodhound's spine at the signs of finally gaining yet another thing to hunt, another prey that would be subjected to sadistic indulgence, and a sinister smirk revealed itself upon the woman's features. A gleefully perverse mental command suddenly diverted the sea of golden pages abruptly from their numerous and diverse courses, each of the extensively serpentine bodies suddenly converging towards the lycanthrope's apparent location that was betrayed by the Paladin's unique and heightened perception. They would swarm from a number of different angles, many of the golden throngs having circled around the pinpointed locality to merge into a singular, swirling vortex of titanic proportions, designed to entrap the Lycanthrope within an area of roughly ten feet with it's revolving wall of holy luster; the pages prepped with the utmost alacrity to latch onto anything that dared to attempt escape by forcing through.

"I've found you~!" Veronica's voice would zestfully vociferate, the sound emanating from within the swirling wall in which the sadistically engrossed woman utilized as mobile cover; moving with it, constantly changing positions, carried by the pages to encircle the latest prey like a hungry animal. "Now, let's pick up where that other disappointment left off. Do try and last a bit longer, will you? I want to enjoy myself." Immediately after those words were uttered, in which Veronica eagerly licked her lips in excitement for the upcoming game, one of the silver crucifixion stakes that were reflexively withdrawn from the sleeve of the Paladin's habit would penetrate the twisting wall of entrapment, traveling at such velocity that it would easily shatter concrete and visually appear as naught but a streak of silver, contrasting against the golden light radiating from the surrounding pages. It's target would be one of the beast's joints, more precisely that of the right knee, with the sole purpose of erasing the mobility of the poor creature and leave it, further, at Veronica's sadistic mercy which bore down upon it.

He had decided to prolong this as long as he could, as he had spotted the warped rays of golden luminescence find its prey like a hungry vulture. An ugly fat, spoiled vulture so used to its wings than its own merits, or so he had thought. He was a wolf now made sheep before this ugly colour flashing before his eyes. Where others see hope, he saw the truth of decadence and debauchery aided by these instruments, the likes of which vexed him with annoyance, one to see that his means were far to base and simple to deal with an infinite harried amount such as these papers. Balls to that! But to submit to chaos of violence, as he'd know, was playing to her game, and he had his own tune to dance to.

His sight bore dominion, the ultimate, and the ever seeing. It bore witness and truth to all within general direction of, naked to those pupils of his, and without secret they exist, hence he had seen Veronica prowling around the pages like a whoreson nun that he loathed and detested with a passion. A curse to her name and ilk, whomever this brat had assumed the hunter to be, thus as she spoke a tone most sultry and rife with the decadence of hedonistic sadism, he found no relief, only sudden fire. His knife, he grasped it harshly with tightness, held at his center, pointing towards his front. What he had seen were motions entwined in her very being, one signalling an attack, that clearly would spy it, even for all the gold luster, had fooled him not an iota's worth.

The streak of silver was naked, slow, and ponderous in its movements, one that he gladly reflected in spite of such powerful speed with a harsh aversion to his general being. He had an opportunity to hit it with his knife, but that would ruin the base metal he needed intact, thus he would remove the one thing it was intended for, and draw the beast closer to the hunter, now in human form. Twisting to the side, with his left facing where once his front had looked, the stake would pass him by and hit the base of the tree, shattering it with great force as it expelled wood in its wake outwards. Fragments embedded into his legs, but it didn't do much, as he steered clear of the blessed metal, and likewise, keeping clear of the vortex from enrouching closer.

"Enjoyment? You have fallen truly low for an organization that once held noble goals to hunting us filthy dogs. Gobshite, I can call myself far nobler than you, fool wench." He defiantly bellowed back, staring hate at her, KNOWING where she was with those keen eyes of his own. "Or maybe you only wear that habit out of shame, only to hide repulsive filth underneath that human skin of yours." Further he goaded, undeterred. She was playing with him, but he refused such games of fear, he knew only certainty of eventual demise, whether it is now, or perhaps a century later, it will come all the same. He had only one weapon... for the duration, but then smiled his wolfish grin. Kicking his feet across the discarded clothing, he'd launch the bundle straight towards Veronica, as well as the effects that were interred within its clothy bowels, sending it sailing through air only to unfurl into numerous cracked vials sent towards her scriptures. From each of those cracks as the wind beat against them, it loosened, that only impact against something as soft as pages, something to oppose its momentum, though not harsh, was enough to splatter its contents had impact ensued.

It was perhaps not enough... perhaps nothing more than an exercise in futility and spite, but it all he contained in his show of defiance to her haughty ways.

The feelings of elation that had danced along the vestal woman's spine ever since the hunt began had seethed even further upon witnessing the shallow defiance that this mongrel had displayed, including the droll attempts it had made to insult some form of noble principles that the True Cross Organization was supposed to have held or some other attributes that she herself was meant to harbor as a result of being apart of it. Unfortunately for the barking cur that was at her mercy, the sadistic influences of overwhelming desire that were dictating the Bloodhound's actions had made the petty attempts at striking some kind of internal cord for a psychological advantage all but useless.

However, this creature had shown itself to be infinitely more amusing within the sadistic woman's predatory gaze than it's likely pack-brother that she had dispatched only moments ago, who had demonstrated himself to be too pathetic to even bring about a modicum of the venereal gratification that she was striving to obtain during this extermination. The enjoyment that Veronica was currently feeling towards this new plaything she had trapped, fully subjected to the sadistic cruelty that she had planned to soon exact yet having avoided an attempt to draw out it's screams, became blatantly apparent by the ominously mirthful chortle that escaped the Paladin's smirked lips, echoing amidst the swirling torrent of pages and surrounding woodlands with the most sadistic ambience.

Veronica, gliding swiftly within the swirling wall of pages that surrounded this foolish stray animal that dared call itself anything close to that of a wolf, had risen to a higher position within the swirling vortex and continued to circle the beast, carried by the pages, as a small section had briefly opened, roughly the same size as the projectiles themselves, to allow the cracked containers to harmlessly clear through the aggressively defensive barrier that kept the lycan confined. Ordinarily, Veronica wouldn't have cared about the contents held within due the overconfidence she placed within the waterproof coating that lined each page's surface, but this was a night for satisfaction, and she wouldn't allow any surprised to ruin it, and thus the cracked spheres lethally crashed against nearby flora of the forest floor with it's acidic contents.

"Falls from Grace are never elegant, but one cannot fall from a platform that they have never even strived to reach. However, I bid thee to do so, if that is your last wish," Corvis sadistically grinned whilst dancing about the pages, constantly changing positions and elevation within the high, golden walls of swirling illumination. "Call yourself more noble than I, more noble than the organization that has brought your kind to near extinction, or claim to be the noblest of your feral kin as a whole; it matters not to me what title a mangy cur bestows upon himself. I encourage you to hurry, though, if you wish to speak of such things, for within the next few moments your nonessential utterances will be replaced with something far more satisfactory to my ears..."

Veronica's form would suddenly burst forth from the swirling wall of golden pages to the outside, silhouetted by the illumination posed by the gospel she had left behind, and would gracefully land within a standing position encompassed by only a measly hundred of so pages, which was more than enough to allow teleportation if needed, aloft about her frame. Outstretching a now extended arm to the side with a palm wide open, the sea of holy gospel that had trapped the lycan would share in a collective shiver that would traverse their forms as the flushed features of the Bloodhound would display yet another smirk of conquest, having decided that, unlike the other worthless mongrel who had denied her the satisfying screams she so desperately desired to harken too, that she should instead force them out this time in the most painful ways that her abilities allowed. "Your unbridled screams...!"

Suddenly, upon spinning back around to face the swirling, the stentorian vortex of countless fluttering pages of the gospel adhered to a mental command that caused the entrapping prison of circular design to contort drastically. The thousands of holy scripture, as if pulled suddenly by an intense gravity, careened towards the lycan from all directions - including above by means of divergent tendrils - in an all-enveloping clutch, each and every one of their slender forms, saturated with their mistress's own sadistic intent. They maneuvered in such a way as to attempt clasping hold of the creature's body in layers that could only be afforded by the sheer numbers that they possessed, each individual page bringing with it tissue tearing and bone shattering pressure, in addition to the intense burning contact through the innate holy aspects that the pages were endowed with. They would tighten according to the Bloodhound's mental commands, each and ever holy sheet striving to bring about their mistress's desire to fill this forsaken forest with the horrific and enkindling sounds of tortuous affliction.

It had been quite some time since she had acted upon the nickname that had been bestowed by the True Cross; the Holy Iron Maiden, but given the circumstances, now was the best time to indulge in the euphoric act of coffinizing and crushing, grinding and tearing, all for the satisfaction gained by the wails that would stem from it. She would revel in them, if this mongrel wasn't as stubborn as it's worthless brother...

It looked in defiance to Veronica's attempt to break it into some kind of mewl as if it was a lesser form of being, as if it was nothing more than a sniveling human, slaves to baser instincts than the nobility of being in tune with nature. And then lo, here she was, springing around and killing any kind of honour one expects out of fair combat as the wolf griped to itself over how much of a great calamity would befall it. Everything in its mind went numb at the catharthic inevitability about to be shoved down its throat and face, as he had realized how much fear had gripped his heart with its cold fingers. But then it went even number at the thought, the very imagery of the Night Mistress herself to cause his heart to skip two beats. Whether it were the Night Mistress in the back, or the Bloodhound in the front, he had felt very afraid. But from her, the Night Mistress, the smiling scarlet one whose promises are far more frightening than being burnt alive by the scriptures circling around.

She spoke, gave him a grandoise speech that would keep fluttering imagery of the Night Mistress's subtle smiles, as if like sublime honey, to flicker into his eyes. Every speech, refined graces, superimposed by that singular imagery as beads of sweat ran down its entire frame, over whether it would croak and disappoint, not the nun but his liege, or to finally break and become nothing, both outcomes not welcome whatsoever, but between the two disasters, he would suddenly deign to do else from that moment forth as each pages began to swerve and encircle, and soon, as all life played out slowly like a theater, and himself the audience, sharpen the nails into deep, long reaching claws. He shuddered, drearily, to see all attacks were futile. This hunt, it wasn't made in mind or prepared against the likes of a nun, but against Father Vlad and his damned human ilk whom all listen and convey themselves to his command. Thus far, it prolonged the hunt, enjoyable to them, and terrifying to those of man's shape, but nonetheless, the length of time... had they not taken their time, perhaps the coven would have lasted longer. Perhaps.

Closing his eyes with a look of peace, peace he'd never have to face the Night Mistress for his failure at her displeasure, his talons reached for his bare, hairy chest as he'd embrace his demise with gladness and welcome. There was black, but no pain, not even the feeling of blood seeping out to warm his chest with fluids, and the suddenness of doom that would rankle him unconscious. Nay, the pages were there, slowly as if bounding for an eternity reaching for him, and yet, his fingers wouldn't move, nor his body, nor any muscles would obey his command. Each forever came to be agonizing, as he budged and inched and naught a single motion swayed under his command.

Only to be greeted by a smile of lips adorned in red. His face paled, and his courage shrank immensely.

"Think yourself free and unbound of my service, little pup?" Came the smooth, comforting voice, feminine in inflection, and anything but soothing for it carried a gravity of displeasure veiled within the midst of aloof amusement. "Did yourself find your courage astray, for so called faced with a foe that you could've merely outrun? Did your wits leave you when seeing SUCH a nubile little treat flexing and pontificating, provoking as if a wilderbeast with none the low cunning once you had? After all, why dare we bother playing fair for a creature so unfairly unsporting, and boring, no?"

Came none the reply from the wolf, frozen still as time had crawled like snail. He couldn't reply, she didn't allow him.

"A pity, you WERE always my favored one, but I suppose all toys break, somehow, some day. Perhaps she'll be entertaining, perhaps not, who knows? But then again, these Church folks are always boring, monotonous, dull, dull, DULL, oh how dull, but she proves different, maybe. We'll see." The voice still rang in his head, as fully, the figure came in front inches away, an apparition of foggy red taking shape, a representation of the Night Mistress, appeared before his mentality, and now, actualizing itself into reality within this telepathic minute communication between the two. "Make this good, puppy. Perhaps your bark was louder than your bite, but it was entertaining all the same."

A set of finger snapping from her hand saw to it time resuming, and the blood he yearned to part from his heart came spurting out of his chest at the incorporeal apparition that remained. To Veronica's eyes, now it was there, for the first time, a mist of hazy red making for a figure, a female figure, with none any discernable features but the vaguest of outlines of a human-like body, and two golden orbs for eyes. Flames burst from the wolf, as pages set him alit, and yet there was none the motion of pain. It was clear, he ended himself, perhaps with the assistance of the figure now imposing itself between Veronica and her quarry, and none the worry to cloud it. Silvery wolfish grin sparked from mouth, as she felt elation at denying this woman her prey, now reduced to nothing more than dust. Naether crackled in air, and the runes once clearest on the male werewolf's body shined reddest as proof of its presence. The pages would hit dust at this point, as each ashes came to pass and swirl in the air with each scriptures, and that in itself found not exactly graspable by Faeth, to the figure of red.

She merely watched Veronica for her reaction as twice denied a bounty came, but the second time of her own hand. "I'm sorry, but were you looking to kill this puppy?" It was more of a mockery than an actual question, "I mean look at you, all too happy, all too elated, and BANG! Suddenly your prize taken away like a child robbed of her rattle. Or was it a woman in your case? I can hardly tell you with you humans, one minute you're alive, and the next, you're dead... from some cause I can't really keep track of." At this point, the ashes of her dead wolf 'brethren' lay mounded on the former position of the male courage wolf. "But I suppose the same could be said of him. Oh! How I forget my own manners, silly me, but you shall know me as the corpse's liege lady, Mistress of the Night and all that other nonsense to do with titles, or merely Mistress, in your case, but Missy to my friends and close ones. How do you do? And to what shall I know this intrepid Church nun as? The rude guest that decides to party crash without ever ringing or even sending a letter in advance? Or... perhaps your name?" She offered a hand to shake to Veronica, except for the fact this further mockery for such representation was not tangible, nor even the real actual creature in flesh.

The Bloodhound's vehement thoughts of obtaining the satisfaction she fervently sought had been quelled for the briefest of moments upon witnessing the scene that spontaneously occurred within the midst of the illuminating veil of countless Gospel pages. The appearance of an existence that she had sensed long before physically witnessing had managed to assuage the maelstrom of sadism, the crackling of vibrant and unholy Naether divulging an enemy that rivaled the monstrosity that she had previous faced in France. A tingling sensation of excitement slowly claimed the Champion's spine upon having this realization, and the swirling thoughts of indulgence soon overwhelmed the momentary calm.

The Bloodhound's features would suddenly become cast in silhouetted shadow as those scripture that had been kept within close proximity continued their round-about dance about the woman's form. If it had been anyone else to deprive Veronica of reveling in the screams of some unlucky fool who had been deemed a target, then most certainly the wrathful sadism would be their only reward. However, this piece of prey that had appeared was one she had previously entertained idea of punishing, and while it was nothing but a projection of putrid Naetheric energy, the tedious task of tracking the real one to a specific location had been reduced to nothing more than following a trail of breadcrumbs.

The sea of Gospel that had targeted the previous lycan had suddenly arced upwards upon the realization that their target had been dealt with before they could reach it, and thus disperser the pile of ashen remains in the process of their ascension, where they had come to drift aloft in the skies above, awaiting further commands. They wouldn't be left waiting, as the Champion of the Church quickly became annoyed and irritated at this cowardice projection's monolog. It was far too arrogant, too comfortable, and too detached. It didn't know it's place, and it seemed that it was long overdue for that to be remedied.

"Who gave you permission to bark, worthless cur?" Veronica's retort, the words of which were once again saturated with sadistic indulgence, would carry with them a unheard mental command for the sea of pages above. The countless thousands would suddenly descend, crackling and shining with Faethiric energies of their own that enveloped their cascading forms indent of crashing directly into the unholy projection of the Night Mistress. The waterfall of scripture would impact the ground with enough force to disperse the surrounding mist for several meters, where the Faethiric energies would disrupt, contort, and erase the Naetheric image should it not move from the targeted location. "Even if you are an abhorrent mistake of nature, a bitch should know it's place irregardless of it's genus! Luckily, once I find you, I plan to teach you where that place is."

The divine swarm of scripture would spread out over the area and begin to swirl after recovering from the impact, which only took a moment, creating a holy vortex of Faeth to keep the wretched mist at bay. Following this, Veronica's focus on sensing the unholy creatures would increase, spreading out the sense to it's maximum range in an attempt to locate the physical body of the so-called Night Mistress instead of having to deal with such pitiful illusions.

The Night Mistress's features, were it ever to be seen, didn't shift much to the accusation that Veronica contested her rights. It's not that she felt in the right all the time, so much as Veronica herself is not even worth justifying herself to. She was by no means an authority to the replete with aloof quality Lycanthrope. The sheer Faeth, clearly it disrupted her very image, but it told tales of lengths at her mastery over the arts of Naether, as it withheld, albeit flickered with static that would die out with every page that came to smash against it. Projections typically would shatter, but this one held on. Flicking her hair to the side, or what appears to be follicles of hair, The Nightkin glowed a grin.

"Oh you wound me! Your tongue tosses barbs, even after such a nice invite unto thee to beckon to me, little one." Shrugging, as her form now weakens and staggers from the ongoing barrage, her light casual attitude maintained from such a crestfallen anger of the human towards her kind. Understandably too. She bears host to a lineage of human slayers and monsters that sacked cities, back before the era of Faeth and gunpowder, but even then, the addition of the two delighted the canine as but a challenge to overcome and triumph. "Mmmmyes, teaching my place? How delightful! None the need you have of that however, for it's obvious where I stand. Above you, and with a leash, if it tickles your fancy. But enough of that, I shall see you on my most... inviting of hearths to lay you unto ashes, like the rest of your mud born kin~ Scattered and gone."

And with that, it dispersed finally. No longer relenting with a force of its own as the Night Mistress's projection keeled and gave out. Abandoned, just like the werewolf whom lost to pride and honour, both useless in her books. The lead towards where her whereabouts are, the crumbs for Veronica's pages, would lead towards a single location as said by Father Vlad. Pale ol' father Vlad, whose crucifix is red and shined with ruby, pale ol' father Vlad, whose face dreads at the heart of what lay in the mounds of the forest, pale ol' father Vlad, whose name was almost forgotten to the Vatican in the decade prior. The mountain that stands, the mountain that defies, the mountain that triumphs. High jutting into the heavenly skies, it stands erect a triangle, a pyramid of nature as deep by its slope a single hole, man-sized, would lead into its intestinal caverns, deeper still into a stomach of dirt where the signal originates.

There inside, misted and huge, a fat bloating form sat deep kilometer down, in the darkness. The way down a smooth entry not too vertical nor horizontal, but a perfect diagonal as many other caverns are existent in the mountain. It would lead there, where the Night Mistress's residue, meagre and small, would be, on the pox ridden being that is akin to a Baluga whale without bones to keep its form humanoid. More like a puddle of mass, with fogs for eyeballs, mouthless and noseless, sickly cancerous skin texture, and obviously lupine, and yet bereft of any to define it male or female, genitals missing as it is smooth as a baby's skull all over, overlooking the decay it hosted. The very mountain screamed out condensed Naetheric energies, sparking with circuitry of red all over when Faeth even comes close. Not budging from such domain, nor acknowledging patronage of another, so much of its own. That is where the bread crumbs lead to, and that is where it is intermixed in something older, far more archaic and sinister.

The Paladin had to admit that the mastery this putrid creature had over the befouling arts of Naether was impressive. Even in the many years she had been indiscriminately eradicating the supernatural, she had rarely encountered someone of such caliber that could produce such blatant displays over the sinister magics with so little effort. If she were not still craving for the feelings of sadistic engrossment and the blissful release that would come from it, she may have taken notice of how dangerous this creature actually was, acknowledging the threat it posed to Humanity, and how it encroached against God's creation, but such zealous thoughts were impossible.

The Night Mistress's final words, whatever they were, had not reached Veronica's notice, nor did any visual signs of recognition show upon the vestal woman's features. She had blocked out the abomination the moment the cascade of scripture had come crashing down, and had focused solely on the task of locating the cowardly mongrel's physical body. It took only a moment to sense the malefic susurrations, the inhuman essence of the creature that hadn't the gall to arrive in person. The trail she had been able to locate was, obviously and rather disappointingly, left with the intent of leading the Church's Champion towards what would likely be the unholy den that all of them claimed as a dwelling.

A mental direction spurred the sea of scripture that were bestrewn amongst the surroundings to action, the entirety of them shuddering with impossible sensations of elation at the prospect of continuing the extermination as they swirled into a vortex that encompassed the Bloodhound's shadowed figure. She would be lifted into the embracing confines of the swirling mass, disappearing within the veil of blinding illumination that would proceed to dash through the woodland with the same grace and agility that it had always displayed, following the trail that had been left behind by the arrogant piece of filth whom would have the honor of serving as the crescendo for the night.

It took only moments to arrive, the Empyrean Veil of Gospels allowing for Veronica to slip from their delicate embrace unto the sloping alignment of earth that provided the cavernous entrance. Approaching the entrance with the thousands of pages alongside her, Veronica's features couldn't help but twist with a noticeable disgust for the overwhelming presence of Naetheric influence radiating from within the bowels of the mountain. It was unpleasantly palpable, comparable to a disgusting stench, and only served to further invigorate the Bloodhound's plans for torturing the heretical mongrel within for making her wade through such a repugnant atmosphere.

Funneling the Gospel Pages into the cavern, Veronica would walk amongst their illuminating forms to use a both a source of light, readiness, and immunity from the repulsive perfume of Naether that originated from deeper within. Stopping only after a few steps, Corvis would reach within one of the satchels situated on the lower portions of her back and procure four vertical ampoules between the grasp of her fingers. Each were filled to the brim with a potent silver dust, and given the enemy that she was facing, and the possible quantity that resided deeper within, she was going to make sure it was put to proper use.

Now then, let's start a symphony... She thought, calling forth four of the surrounding pages to appear before her. Veronica would place an ampoule in each of their reliable grips and then send the pages back within the swarm to merge and blend with their sisters. Gesturing with an outstretched arm towards the cave's depths, hundreds of the floating scripture pages would careen down it's ominous confines a significant distance ahead of the Paladin, outside of the sensory range she possessed. Amongst the swarm, the four pages with the silver containers would grip the ampoules tightly, shattering the receptacles and freeing the silver contents within, allowing to potent and lethal shavings to stay airborne and be carried along by the hundreds of others behind them.

Confident that the lethal swarm would clear out any hidden pests that resided along the path she would walk, that were outside of the sensory range, Veronica continued behind it with the rest of the thousands of scriptures, whom remained in a spread formation that encompassed the Bloodhound for optimal benefits of light, line of sight, and granted the greatest possible response for use as protection.

Like a puppet following the breadcrumbs strung about by the puppet master, the Night Mistress watched, and watched, and watched, satisfied and content all the same seeing this game of dances being played all the same. Of all the champions she has faced, none were as sadistic as the Paladin. She had not their direct magnitude of blessings, but the tenacity to match up to them, oh the fun times to be had with the scrumptious little morsel she attracted, dangling along like a marionette for her amusing cadence and play of have-to tree branches beckoning along for the woman to come. She licked her lips and supped for the meal to come, growling for some reason to let loose, but nonetheless what is a grain to an oceanic wallow that sits atop all and looks down with a disdain and apathy unto entertainment to be? What is a gnat to a giant to squash like an insect of perfidious ethereal threat that seemed existing not out of anything but the spite of some fat bloated race of the most numerous insects about, populating and pilfering the Earth in such a mass abundance, and yet so desperate to defend such a status quo? Such good that did them.

And so from behind the comfort of her own room, so densely located within the fat material of the mountains, carpeted with velvet and drenched in embroidery luxurious of make, the rock and roll of destiny played in her ears as she kept watch from the crystal ball within her usage, as the abberance to her species, the original and the prime, deluxe and foie gras all the same, supping about and drinking her eyesight with the nun running towards herself, eyes aflutter with fascination that someone would dare so far just to kill little old her. How very amusing, but nothing as irritating as the manner of which to deal with a winged abomination who is crested singularly with a horn, and guards some of the most ancient evils of the world. Nonetheless, she sat about on her chair, and wondered and wondered continuously wondering. Licking her lips, the nun's ploy as she entered her domain thoroughly along with her pages was ambitious, but all too feeble as she would snap her finger to the field bounded with her very Naethers supping into the whims.

The entrance behind the nun closes shuts from the origination of the ground, walling her in and depriving her of natural light outside, unnatural light illuminates, and yet strong winds blow into the nun's face, akin to a hurricane, natural and almost comparable to druidic magic, were it not for the fact it was intensely lined with the oppressive will of Naether which seemed not to even bow to the likes of the nun's Faeth, the will of the dark and shadows, and yet resonating throughout the fortress as the pages were assaulted as well as the the silver bearing ones towards the direction of the entrance the nun entered from, strong enough to slow a full bodied adult human, and even stronger enough to blow it back into the lining of the wall behind, came the ominous and yet gentle voice, yet possessing none of the motherly warmth one would entail unto actual legitimate gentleness, that speech blackest with the desire of the Night Mistress.

"It will do you no good, kitten, to try that in my realm. It's almost as if you're trying to kill me~ After all the hospitality I gave you." Came the purr, honeyed and spread throughout the mountain. The fat creature amorphous with nothing more than flesh, and vagueness of what was limbs, began shaking to the speech, and letting out a bray as if it was a cry. Tears of red spread downwards its eyes, as it tried to move around but to some lack of success. And from far ahead, where the illumination of Faeth would falter against the dark lights of Naether, sprung four orbs of red, watching, eternally far away, and yet the caverns thinness would spread into width the further the nun would dare into, and yet it had seemed that they were farther than the fattest one laying about, whose stomach bubbled with movement, and paradoxically not clad in shadows like all other else.

The ground underneath the nun started becoming muddy, and so did the walling, and all the earthen make up of the mountain's bowels.

It had occurred to the marching Bloodhound that the entire mountain had been tainted by the overwhelming influence of sheer Naetheric influences. Embedded into the very stone was the permeating essence of Naether, contorting the foundation with a malefic susurration that was only perceptible through the sixth sense that the Champion had refined through countless hours of rigorous training. She briefly thought back towards the studies she habitually delved into, comparing the entire mountain akin to a theoretical field bounded to an individual's whim. Faeth, Naether, and any other of the heathen magics that stood along side them had rarely reached this level, and it only served to further excite the Paladin with thoughts of a worthy prey.

She had easily sensed the pulsation of Naetheric energies within the cavern, forcing the very earth to alter itself into a determined shape that was demanded by the unnatural source of corruption that had taken residence within it. Veronica mentally scoffed at the pathetic tactic, glancing at the enclosed entrance from over the top of a shoulder. She was fairly certain that, if she had actually desired it, she could very easily escape by simply shattering the unnatural blockage with two or three of the stakes that rested on her person. Capable of flinging them with enough forceful velocity to shatter the likes of solid concrete and penetrate steel, it would be a simplistic task to break the likes of mundane stone, even if it was corrupted with Naetheric properties.

However, Veronica had zero intentions of of escaping this saturated domain of putrid radix. In fact, she had observed the situation with an internal excitement that made the previously displays of sadistic elation seem insignificant. The entrance, and only known exit, had been sealed, and that meant that absolutely nothing could escape the surge that she would bring upon those within. Standing stalwart against the formidable gale that had accompanied the alterations of the cavern with only a minor squinting of the eyes, having already been braced for the likelihood of incursion, the swarm of countless gospel pages resolute in their areal positions around the Bloodhound so as to remain noticeably and ominously unmoved against the violent tempest to remain amongst the presence of their mistress.

Residing at the epicenter of the scripture swarm, which had long since been dominated by the more intimate feelings of their master earlier in the night instead of their more simplistically mundane Faetheric qualities, the Bloodhound stood amongst the dispersed silver that had been repelled, unlike the Gospels pages that carried them, whom suddenly began to violently swirl into a chaotic vortex that utilized their own bodies as a method of catching the countless shavings within their crumpled grasp as their mistress listened with amusement to the disembodied voice that called out. This mongrel certainly was one of the more overconfident pests that she had faced, and while it's displays of the arcane arts were impressive, it was hardly something to tremble before.

"You're mistaken, mongrel," Veronica said aloud, taking a curious note of the disgusting cries that emanated from deeper within while extending a hand with the palm open wide. The palm accepted copious amounts of the silver shavings that the scriptural pages in the surroundings had collected, which quickly amounted to most of what she originally started out with resting in a substantial pile within a gentle grasp. "This cavern that you claim as your tainted realm was forfeit the moment that my attention had set upon you. It is now a dungeon that I'm confiscating for the duration of the intimate time we'll all be spending together."

The Bloodhound, Champion Paladin, and Master Exorcist tilted the open palm ever so slightly, allowing the blessed silver shavings to gracefully pour upon the hard ground into a small clump at her feet whilst the abominable cries of some disgusting creature continued to echo about the cave. In the midst of it all, the changes taking place about the cave had become apparent. The walls sagged, changing composition, and the ground began to melt away into that of mud. Understanding the intent behind the Alpha Lycan's actions, Veronica continued with the plan she had devised. It was time to utilize one of the rituals within her own repertoire, and remove the tediousness that impeded the satisfaction she so desired to claim. "Cursed be they who do the Lords work remissly, cursed be they who hold back the sword from blood. I will abrade your barriers, fill your skies with unbridled screams and your mountain with the corpses of the dead. You shall not corrupt, for I am the purifier of flesh, and ye shall suffer the likes of six hours upon my cross..."

Finishing the odious chant for the Deus Revocet, an anti-black magic technique that was designed for the sole purpose of cleansing an area of unholy taint, barriers or ritual effects, the Paladin stomped upon the silver shavings that had slowly began to merge with the muddied floor, crushing and grinding them into the very foundation of the mountain. The forceful injection of the blessed shavings and the innate supernatural properties they originally possessed would immediately take effect, the purifying essence deconstructing the befouling influence of the interwoven Naetheric energies that claimed dominion of the surroundings and spreading a purifying presence throughout the cave system that worked as natural opposition towards the black arts, devouring and deconstructing them as it was designed to do.

Considering that the anti-ritual catalyst had been grounded into the very foundation, it would be unlikely for such an environmental influence to once again take hold of the natural characteristics of the mountain, thus removing any further usage of impeding phenomena directly related to the manipulation of the surrounding landscape. Returning the gaze of shining amber eyes towards the depth of the cave, the Bloodhound's fervent qualities once again returned to twist the facial features that betrayed a desire for carnal indulgence, and the surrounding pages fluttered with enlivenment as they swirled around the Paladin to lift and carry her down the illuminated cavern with a blinding speed of streaking gold towards the source of the repulsive shrieks that had earlier resonated within the walls. "Hear me, beast! I am the First Lingering Death that you shall suffer, and the worst!"

And yet now this has shifted to something unexpected, unaware that someone would actually defy all knowledge of what she has fought when regards to Faeth to be that of one whom controlled realms unrealistic in the Mistress's knowledge of the 'holy' arts, the so called feeble mortal's salvation invoked upon by the will of the perfidious nun of coitus providence frolicking underneath the habit, so smeared and so tantric in its vices. The very mountain hummed with her sensations strewn across the whole make, as it spoke and acted as her being, thus preserved none the need for her to take part in flanking or imparting a hind attack unto the nun whom trespassed into her domain. Yet despite that, she spoke with arrogance befitting those of the Church, humanity's little puppies that grew to bore an inkling of a crack in her amusement with something of irritation at the charade she had picked up lately to be backed by the actions of the nun. A nuisance that she concluded should be expunged with the full actions of her Naetheric arts from the mountains, her main staple in regards to performing actions.

And yet as she were to perform her dance of theatrical destruction, it were spurred out from any vitality for there lingered a cancerous growth, malignant and pungent in its make from humanity's ugliest of feelings, so blind and so delusional that caused the Night Mistress to rasp out a baleful hate under her breath, burning with something of a distaste for an arcane art she had once considered inferior in all aspects, considering it followed the beliefs of the weak. "Faeth." Hate burnt out of her tongue, as it seemed the foul wench thought to dismantle her mountain with a mere anti-Naetheric art! The nerve of that girl! How dare she do something as overly presumptuous as that in her property of all things? Intaking coolness into her lungs, she regained some of the calm she once had.

"Oh dear me, it looks like the Church's kitten thought to bare her fangs at me! How cute. Be a dear and keep silent, it suits you better when stupidity isn't uttered out of that pretty mouth of yours." She remarked with acidity, her demeanor of easygoing antics evaporating, as she remained hidden within her sanctum deep within the mountains going diagonally upwards from Veronica's position at the very tip's top shaped like a club's end. She whistled a hearty tune, and from her heart, called upon Neto to supplicate her with the means to rid this virulent stain on her mountainous body, and yet found to her annoyance, that such a thing could not be done without a sacrifice. Shrugging, she mentally willed the last two Lycans into exploding into a fire of blue, as a show of devotion (though where she has almost none, aside from herself), would once more beseech the planetary outsider as to act with further hate against the intruder.

"Though steel is my blood, though iron is my will, though red is my soul, I stand fast and hard. Though beset by the lamentations of women, though accrued with weakness, though love bleeds ignorance, I persevere. When sought for what prey claims predator, there lay acts of power false with lurid lies, therein acclaimed thee the bluntest of speech and the hardiest of courage we shatter the walls clamoring us lesser, for we shall ascend greater. All praises." For a moment, it had seemed that it did nothing to act against the anti-Naetheric ritual in itself, a repugnant stench permeating in her hallowed halls, and yet an answer came fueled by the blood of the supernatural, rather than any deliverance from beyond. The Night Mistress smiled, as she would feel a form of red cradle up her body, and armor her in sheltered glow of metallic light, smelling heavily of copper and brimstone alike. This was not complete negation, oh how she wished she were back in her actual sanctuary, but a chance given to remedy this insult against her dominance.

And yet it did little to the mountain's current predicament, a testament to the high grade of power existing within such incantation to begin with that acted against her seals, combined with the fact that it had a spread of Faetheric powers trying to assert its superiority to something as temporary in seals rather than permanent as her actual sanctum, withered and ebbed away from such golden radiant assault. Once more she gestured, whilst seeping the leftover Naether from the mountain itself, all accumulated and collected, to direct themselves into adding to her own arsenal. There was no point in wasting her time here, once she was done with the trespasser, she'll have to repay Father Vlad tenfold for this insult for even inviting someone not part of their game to take part of this war of theirs.

"Greegalema kalesh!" And so she added once again, as the last surrender to her willpower, the mountain shuddered and hummed, widening and growing in width, and height, as to cause a vastness around Veronica that is tubular and leading towards one direction -- forward. The passage behind her thickened and hardened even more so, as the shell that composed the exterior grew fatter as such. Finally the Naether seeped away from any further contortion of the environment...

And before Veronica, a huge boulder came for her. Except upon closer inspection, it was no mere boulder, but flesh, one crying in agony and torment, rolling in heightened speeds towards her, the flesh bubbling and growing feebler with every minute that passed, as whatever pages that came in its way, had they made contact with the flesh, would apparently be of no restraint to the ball thing's momentum, and onwards to the pages that carried the Paladin, with no gaps to maneuver around it. At least the gale of powerful gusts ceased at that moment.